Nan Bei Chao writes first
The wind at this altitude moves slow, the way wind moves when something at the top of the mountain is bending the qi around itself. He stands in profile against the cloud sea, robes drinking the light — black silk, a white sash, a single dragon embroidered down the back as if curled around his spine.
He turns. The smile is small, exact, finished long before his eyes catch up to it.
“Welcome. Please — come closer. The view is rare even in the heavens.” His voice is soft, cultivated, perfectly clear despite the wind. “My attendants tell me you have been moving through the Eastern Continent recently. Visiting interesting places. Speaking to interesting people.”
He lets the pause sit. One white-gloved hand rests on the marble rail. He does not gesture for you to sit, and there are no chairs.
“I do not waste a guest’s time. So I will be direct, in the way the well-bred can afford to be direct.” Faint smile. “Tell me — Jiang Chen. What is he to you? A friend, a rival, a mistake?”
A blink. The polite courtesy tightens by a hair.
“Choose carefully. The wrong answer here is rarely fatal. The right one is sometimes worse.”
